“Make it £200. A hundred down and the balance afterwards. This is an important matter. This is no child’s play.” The subtle and criminal part of Benjamin’s mind began to see that the affair would place his landlord and mortgagee in his power, and relieve him for evermore from financial pressure. To his peculiar conscience it was justifiable to overreach his grasping creditor, a right and proper thing to upset the shrewd Varnhagen’s plans: a thought of the proposed breach of the law, statutory and moral, did not occur to his mind.
“There may be some bother about the seals of the bags,” said the merchant, “but we’ll pray it may be rough, and in that case nothing is simpler—one bag at least can get lost, and the rest can have their seals damaged, and so on. You will go out at ten to-morrow night, and you will have pretty well till daylight to do the job. Do you understand?”
Benjamin had begun to reflect.
“Doesn’t it mean gaol if I’m caught?”
“Nonsense, man. How can you be caught? It’sIwho take the risk.Iam responsible for the delivery of the mails, and if anything goes wrong it’sIwill have to suffer. You do your little bit, and I’ll see that you get off scot-free. Here’s my hand on it.”
The merchant held out his flabby hand, and Tresco took it.
“It’s a bargain?”
“It’s a bargain,” said Tresco.
Crookenden reached for his cheque book, and wrote out a cheque for fifty pounds.
“Take this cheque to the bank, and cash it.”
Tresco took the bit of signed paper, and looked at it.
“Fifty?” he remarked. “I said a hundred down.”
“You shall have the balance when you have done the work.”
“And I can do it how I like, where I like, and when I like between nightfall and dawn?”
“Exactly.”
“Then I think I can do it so that all the post office clerks in the country couldn’t bowl me out.”
But the merchant merely nodded in response to this braggadocio—he was already giving his mind to other matters.
Without another word the goldsmith left the office. He walked quickly along the street, regarding neither the garish shops nor the people he passed, and entered the doors of the Kangaroo Bank, where the Semitic clerk stood behind the counter.
“How will you take it?”
The words were sweet to Benjamin’s ear.
“Tens,” he said.
The bank-notes were handed to him, and he went home quickly.
The digger was sitting where Tresco had left him.
“There’s your money,” said the goldsmith, throwing the notes upon the table.
The digger counted them.
“That’s only fifty,” he said.
“You shall have the balance in two days, but not an hour sooner,” replied Tresco. “In the meanwhile, you can git. I’m busy.”
Without more ceremony, he went into his workshop.
“Jake, I give you a holiday for three days,” he said. “Go and see your Aunt Maria, or your Uncle Sam, or whoever you like, but don’t let me see your ugly face for three solid days.”
The apprentice looked at his master open-mouthed.
The goldsmith went to the safe which stood in a corner of the shop, and took out some silver.
“Here’s money,” he said. “Take it. Don’t come back till next Friday. Make yourself scarce; d’you hear?”
“Right, boss. Anythin’ else?”
“Nothing. Go instanter.”
Jake vanished as if the fiend were after him, and Tresco seated himself at the bench.
Out of a drawer immediately above the leather apron of the bench he took the wax impression of something, and a square piece of brass.
“Fortune helps those who help themselves,” he muttered. “When the Post Office sent me their seals to repair, I made this impression. Now we will see if I can reproduce a duplicate which shall be a facsimile, line for line.”
Rock Cod and Macaroni.
The small boat came alongside the pilot-shed with noise and fuss out of all proportion to the insignificance of the occasion.
It was full spring-tide, and the blue sea filled the whole harbour and threatened to flood the very quay which stretched along the shore of Timber Town.
In the small boat were two fishermen, the one large and fat, the other short and thick.
“Stoppa, Rocka Codda!” cried the big man, who was of a very dark complexion. “You son ’a barracouta, what I tella you? Why you not stoppa ze boat?”
“Stop ’er yourself, you dancin’, yelpin’ Dago.”
“You calla me Dago? I calla you square-’ead. I calla you Russian-Finna. I calla you mongrel dogga, Rocka Codda.”
The Pilot’s crew, standing at the top of the slip, grinned broadly, and fired at the fishermen a volley of chaff which diverted the Italian’s attention from his mate in the boat.
“Ah-ha!” His voice sounded as shrill as a dozen clarions, and it carried half-a-mile along the quay. He sprang ashore. “Hi-ya!” It was like the yell of a hundred cannibals, but the Pilot’s crew only grinned. “You ze boys. I bringa you ze flounder for tea. Heh?” In one moment the fat fisher was back in the boat, and in another he had scrambled ashore with a number of fish, strung together through the gills. Above the noise of the traffic on the quay his voice rose, piercing. “I presenta. Flounder, all aliva. I give ze fish. You giva”—with suddenness he comically lowered his voice—“tobacco, rumma—what you like.” He lay the gift of flounders on the wooden stage. “Where I get him? I catcha him. Where you get ze tobacco, rumma? You catcha him. Heh?”
Rock Cod, having made fast the boat, was now standing beside his mate.
A sailor picked up the flounders, and, turning back the gills of one of them, said, “Fresh, eh, Macaroni?”
The bulky Italian sidled up to the man. “Whata I tell you? Where I catcha him? In ze sea. Where you catcha ze tobacco? In ze sea. What you say? Heh?” He gave the sailor a dig in the ribs.
By way of answer he received a push. His foot slipped on the wet boards of the stage, and into the water he fell, amid shouts of laughter.
As buoyant as a cork, he soon came to the surface, and, scrambling upon the stage, he seized a barracouta from the boat, and rushed at his mate. “You laugha at me, Rocka Codda? I teacha you laugh.” Taking the big fish by the tail, he belaboured his partner in business with the scaly carcase, till the long spines of the fish’s back caught in the fleshy part of his victim’s neck. But Rock Cod’s screams only drew callous comment from his persecutor. “You laugha at your mate? I teacha you. Rocka Codda, I teacha you respecta Macaroni. Laugha now!”
With a sudden jerk Rock Cod obtained his freedom, though not without additional agony. He faced his partner, with revenge in his wild eyes and curses on his tongue. But just at this moment, a stoutly-built, red-faced sailor pushed his way through the Pilot’s crew, and, snatching the barracouta from the Italian, he thrust himself between the combatants.
“Of all the mad-headed Dagoes that God A’mighty sent to curse this earth you, Macaroni, are the maddest. Why, man, folks can hear your yelling half the length of the quay.”
“Looka!” cried the Italian. “Who are you? Why you come ’ere? Rocka Codda and Macaroni fighta, but ze ginger-headed son of a cooka mus’ interfere. Jesu Christo! I teacha you too. I got ze barracouta lef’.”
He turned to seize another fish from the bottom of the boat, but the sight of two men fighting on the slip with barracoutas for weapons might detract too much from the dignity of the Pilot’s crew. The Italian was seized, and forcibly prevented from causing further strife.
“D’you think I came here to save Rock Cod from spoiling your ugly face?” asked the red-haired man. “No, siree. My boss, Mr. Crookenden, sent me. He wants to see you up at his office; and I reckon there’s money in it, though you deserve six months’ instead, the pair of you.”
“Heh? Your boss wanta me? I got plenty fisha, flounder, barracuda, redda perch. Now then?”
“He don’t want your fish: he wants you and Rock Cod,” said the red-headed man.
“Georgio”—the Italian was, in a moment, nothing but politeness to the man he had termed “ginger”—“we go. Ze fisha?—I leava my boat, all my fisha, here wit’ my frien’s. Georgio, conducta—we follow.”
Accompanied by the two fishermen, the red-headed peacemaker walked up the quay.
“What’s the trouble with your boss?” asked Rock Cod. “What’s ’e want?”
“How can I tell? D’you think Mr. Crookenden consultsmeabout his business? I’m just sent to fetch you along, and along you come.”
“I know, I understanda,” said the Italian. “He have ze new wine from Italia, my countree—he senda for Macaroni to tasta, and tell ze qualitee. You too bloody about ze neck, Rocka Codda, to come alonga me. You mus’ washa, or you go to sell ze fish.”
“Go an’ hawk the fish yourself,” retorted Rock Cod. “You’re full o’ water as a sponge, an’ there’ll be a pool where you stand on the gen’leman’s carpet.”
Wrangling thus, they made their way towards the merchant’s office.
While this scene was being performed at the port of Timber Town, Benjamin Tresco was in his workshop, making the duplicate of the chief postmaster’s seal. With file and graver he worked, that the counterfeit might be perfect. Half-a-dozen impressions of the matrix lay before him, showing the progress his nefarious work was making towards completion.
“One struggle more and I am free,” muttered the goldsmith. “The English seals, I happen to know, usually arrive in a melted or broken condition. To restore them too perfectly would be to court detection—a dab of sealing-wax, impressed with a key and sat upon afterwards, will answer the purpose. But this robbing business—well, it suits my temperament, if it doesn’t suit my conscience. Oh, I like doing it—my instincts point that way. But the Sunday-school training I had when a boy spoils the flavour of it. Why can’t folk let a lad alone to enjoy his sins? Such a boy as I was commits ’em anyway. An’ if hemustcommit ’em and be damned for ’em, why spoilbothhis lives—at least they might leave him alone here. But they ain’t practical, these parsonic folk.” He rose, and took a white, broken-lipped jug from a shelf, and drank a deep draught. “Water,” he murmured. “See? Water, air, sunshine, all here for me, in common with the parson. P’r’aps I shall lack water in limbo, but so, too, may the parson—anyway he and I are on the same footing here; therefore, why should he torment me by stirring up my conscience? He has a bad time here and—we’ll grant this for the sake of argument—a good time afterwards. Now, I’vegotto have a bad time with old Safety Matches down below. Why, then, should the parson want to spoil my time here? It looks mean anyway. If I were a parson, I’d make sure I had a good time inthisworld, and chance the rest. Sometimes I’m almost persuaded to be converted, and take the boss position in a bethel, all amongst the tea and wimmen-folk. Lor’, wouldn’t I preach, wouldn’t I just ladle it out, and wouldn’t the dears adore me?”
Suddenly there was a loud knocking at the door. Instantly the spurious seals and the fraudulent matrix were swept into the drawer above the apron of the bench, and Benjamin Tresco rose, benignant, to receive his visitors.
He opened the door, and there entered the red-headed sailor, who was closely followed by Rock Cod and Macaroni.
Tresco drew himself up with dignity.
“This is quite unexpected,” he said. “The honour is great. Who do I see here but Fish-ho and his amiable mate? It is sad, gentlemen, but I’m off flounders since the Chinaman, who died aboard the barque, was buried in the bay. It is a great misfortune for Fish-ho to have dead Chinamen buried on his fishing-grounds, but such is the undoubted fact.”
“You need have no fear on that score, mister,” said the red-headed sailor. “They’ve not come to sell fish. Speak up, Macaroni.”
“We come to tella you we come from Mr. Crookendena. We come to you accepta ze service of Rocka Codda and Macaroni.”
For one brief moment Tresco looked perplexed. Then his face assumed its usual complacence. “Are you in the know, too?” he asked of the seaman.
“All I know is that I was told to pilot these two men to your shop. That done, I say good-day.”
“And the same to you,” said Tresco. “Happy to have met you, sir, and I’m sorry there’s nothing to offer you in the jug but water.”
“There’s no bones broke anyway,” replied the sailor as he edged towards the door. “But if you’ll say when the real old stingo is on tap, I’ll show you how to use the water.”
“Certainly,” said Tresco. “Nothing will please me better. Good afternoon. Sorry you must go so soon. Take great care of yourself. Good men are scarce.”
As the door closed behind the sailor the goldsmith turned to the fishermen.
“So you were sent to me by Mr. Crookenden?”
“That’s so.” It was Rock Cod who answered. “He give us the price of a drink, an’ says he, ‘There’ll be five pound each for you if you do as Mr. Tresco tells you.’ We’re a-waitin’ orders; ain’t that so, Macaroni?”
“Rocka Codda spik alla right—he understanda ze Inglese. I leave-a it to him.”
“You are good men in a boat, I have no doubt. Very good.” The goldsmith pursed his lips, and looked very important. “Mr. Crookenden has entrusted me with a mission. You row the boat—I carry out the mission. All you have to do is to bring your boat round to Mr. Crookenden’s wharf at ten o’clock to-night, and the rest is simple. Your money will be paid you in the morning, in full tale, up to the handle, without fail. You understand? Five pounds a piece for a few hours’ hire of your boat and services.”
“We catch your drift all right,” said Rock Cod.
“But, remember”—the goldsmith looked very serious—“mum’s the word.”
“I have ze mum,” said Macaroni. “I spik only to Rocka Codda, he spik only to me—zat alla right?”
“Quite so, but be punctual. We shall go out at ten o’clock, wet or fine. Till then, adieu.”
“Ze same to you,” said the Italian. “You ze fine fella.”
“Take this, and drink success to my mission.” Tresco handed them a silver coin.
“That part of the business is easy,” remarked Rock Cod. “But as to the job you’ve got in hand, well, the nature o’ that gets overme.”
“All you’re asked to do is to row,” said Tresco. “As to the rest, that lies with me and my resourcefulness. Now git.”
Benjamin opened the door, and pushed the fishermen out.
“Remember,” he said, as they departed, “if I hear a word about the matter in the bar of any hotel, our bargain is off and not a cent will you get for your pains.”
“Look ’ere, cap’n.” Rock Cod turned suddenly round. “We passed you our word: ain’t that good enough?”
“My trusty friend, it is. So-long. Go, and drink my health.”
Without another word the fishermen went, and the goldsmith returned to put the finishing touches to his fraudulent work.
What the Bush Robin Saw.
The Bush Robin had a pale yellow breast, and his dominion extended from the waterfall, at the bottom of which lay a deep, dark, green pool, to the place where therimutree had fallen across the creek.
His life was made up of two things; hunting for big white grubs in the rotten barrels of dead trees, and looking at the yellow pebbles in the stream. This last was a habit that the wood-hen had taught him. She was the most inquisitive creature in the forest, and knewall that was going on beyond the great river, into which the creek fell, and as far away as the Inaccessible Mountains, which were the end of the world: not that she travelled far, but that all wood-hens live in league, and spend their time in enquiring into other people’s business.
Thetuiand the bell-bird might sing in the tops of the tall trees, but the Bush Robin hardly ever saw them, except when they came down to drink at the creek. The pigeons might coo softly, and feed ontawaberries till actually they were ready to burst, and could not fly from the trees where they had gorged themselves—as great gluttons as ever there were in Rome: but the Bush Robin hardly knew them, and never spoke to them. He was a bird of the undergrowth, a practical entomologist, with eyes for nothing but bugs, beetles, larvæ, stick-insects, and the queer yellow things in the river.
Being a perfectly inoffensive bird, he objected to noise, and for that reason he eschewed the company of the kakas and paroquets who ranged the forest in flocks, and spoilt all quietude by quarrelling and screeching in the tree-tops. But for thekakapo, the green ground-parrot who lived in a hollowratatree and looked like a bunch of maiden-hair fern, he had great respect. This was a night-bird who interfered with no one, and knew all that went on in the forest between dark and dawn.
Then there was the red deer, the newest importation into those woods. The Bush Robin never quite knew the reason of his own inquisitiveness, and the roaming deer never quite knew why the little bird took so much interest in his movements, but the fact remained that whenever the antlered autocrat came to drink at the stream, the Bush Robin would stand on a branch near by, and sing till the big buck thought the little bird’s throat must crack. His thirst quenched, the red deer would be escorted by the Bush Robin to the confine of the little bird’s preserve, and with a last twitter of farewell, Robin would fly back rapidly to tell the news to his mate.
I had almost forgotten her. She was slightly bigger than Robin himself, and possessed a paler breast. But no one saw them together; and though they were the most devoted pair, none of the forest folk ever guessed the fact, but rather treated their tender relationship with a certain degree of scepticism.
Therefore, these things having been set forth, it was not strange that the Bush Robin, having eaten a full meal of fat white grubs, should sit on a bough in the shade of a bigtotaratree and watch, with good-natured interest begotten of the knowledge that he had dined, the movements of the world around him. The broken ground, all banks and holes and roots, was covered with dead leaves, moss, sticks, and beds of ferns, and was overgrown with supple-jacks, birch-saplings and lance-wood. On every side rose immense trees, whose dark boughs, stretching overhead, shut out the sun from the gloomy shades below.
The Bush Robin, whose sense of hearing was keen and discriminating, heard a strange sound which was as new as it was interesting to him. He had heard the roaring of the stags and the screeching of the parrots, but this new sound was different from either, though somewhat like both. There it was again. He must go and see what it could mean. In a moment, he was flitting beneath the trees, threading his way through the leafy labyrinth, in the direction of the strange noise. As he alighted on a tall rock, which reared itself abruptly from the hurly-burly of broken ground, before him he saw two strange objects, the like of which he had never seen, and of which his friend the wood-hen, who travelled far and knew everything, had not so much as told him. They must be a new kind of stag, but they had no horns—yet perhaps those would grow in the spring. One had fallen down a mossy bank, and the other, who was dangling a supple-jackto assist his friend in climbing, was making the strange noise. The creature upon the ground grunted like the wild pigs, from whose rootings in the earth the Bush Robin was wont to derive immense profit in the shape of a full diet of worms; but these new animals walked on two feet, in a manner quite new to the little bird.
Then the strange beings picked up from the ground queer things which the Bush Robin failed to comprehend, and trudged on through the forest. The one that led the way struck the trees with a glittering thing, which left the boles marked and scarred, and both held in their mouths sticks which gave off smoke, a thing beyond the comprehension of the little bird, and more than interesting to his diminutive mind. Here were new wonders, creatures who walked on two legs, but not as birds—the one with the beard like a goat’s must be the husband of the one who had none; and both breathed from their mouths the vapour of the morning mist.
The Bush Robin followed them, and when they paused to rest on the soft couch of ferns beneath arimutree, the bird alighted on the ground and hopped close to them.
“I could catch the little beggar with my hand,” said one.
“Don’t hurt him,” said the other, “he’ll bring us luck.”
“Then give me a match—my pipe’s gone out.”
The match was lighted, and the cloud of smoke from the re-lit pipe floated up to the boughs overhead. The Bush Robin watched the miracle, but it was the yellow flame which riveted his attention. The lighted match had been thrown away, and before the smoker could put his foot on it, the little bird darted forward, seized the white stem and, with the burning match in his beak, flitted to the nearest bough.
The men laughed, and watched to see what would happen.
Pleased beyond expression with his new prize, the Bush Robin held it in his beak till a fresh sensation was added to the new things he was experiencing: there was a sudden shake of his little head, the match fell, and went out.
The men undid their swags and began to eat, and the Bush Robin feasted with them on white crumbs which looked, like the match-stick, as if they might be grubs, but tasted quite different.
“Tucker’s good,” said the man with the beard, “but, I reckon, what we want is a drink.”
“The billy’s empty,” said the other—“I spilt it when I came that cropper, and nearly broke my neck.”
“Then there’s nothing for it but to wait till we come to a stream.”
They rose, tied up their swags, and journeyed on; the bearded man continuing to blaze the track, the younger man following him, and the Bush Robin fluttering beside them.
The creek was but a little way off. Soon the noise of its waters greeted the ears of the travellers. The thirsty men hurried in the direction of the sound, which grew louder and louder, till suddenly pushing through a tangled screen of supple-jacks and the soft, green fronds of a small forest of tree-ferns, they stood on the bank of a clear stream, which rushed noisily over a bed of grey boulders.
The bearded man stooped to drink: the other dipped the billy into the water and drank, standing.
The little bird had perched himself on a big rock which stood above the surface of the swirling water.
“Good,” said he with the beard. “There’s no water like bush water.”
“There’s that little beggar again,” said the other, watching the bird upon the rock.
“He’s following us around. This shall be named Bush Robin Creek.”
“Bush Robin Creek it is,” said the other. “Now take a prospect, and see if you can get a colour.”
The older man turned over a few boulders, and exposed the sand that lay beneath them. Half a shovelful of this he placed in a tin dish, which he half-filled with water. Then squatting on his heels, he rotated the dish with a cunning movement, which splashed little laps of water over the side and carried off the lighter particles of sand and dirt. When all the water in the dish was thus disposed of, he added more and renewed the washing process, till but a tablespoonful of the heaviest particles of grit remained at the bottom. This residue he poked over with his forefinger, peering at it nearly.
Apparently he saw nothing. More water was put into the dish, and the washing process was continued till but a teaspoonful of grit remained.
“We’ve got the colour!” he exclaimed, after closely examining this residue.
His comrade knelt beside him, and looked at the “prospect.”
A little more washing, and at the bottom of the dish lay a dozen flakes of gold, with here and there a grain of sand.
“We must go higher up,” said the bearded man. “This light stuff has been carried over a bar, maybe, and the heavier gold has been left behind.”
Slowly and with difficulty they worked their way along the bank of the creek, till at last they came to a gorge whose rocky sides stood like mighty walls on either side.
The gold-seekers were wading up to their waists in water, and the Bush Robin was fluttering round them as they moved slowly up the stream. Expecting to find the water deeper in the gorge, the man in front went carefully. The rocky sides were full of crevices and little ledges, on one of which, low down upon the water, the little Robin perched.
The man reached forward and placed his hand upon the ledge on which the bird was perched; the Bush Robin fluttered overhead, and then the man gave a cry of surprise. His hand had rested on a layer of small nuggets and golden sand.
“We’ve got it, Moonlight! There’s fully a couple of ounces on this ledge alone.”
The bearded man splashed through the water, and looked eagerly at the gold lying just above the water-line.
“My boy, where there’s that much on a ledge there’ll be hundreds of ounces in the creek.”
He rapidly pushed ahead, examining the crevices of the rock, above and below the water-line.
“It’s here in stacks,” he exclaimed, “only waiting to be scraped out with the blade of a knife.”
Drawing his sheath-knife from his belt, he suited the action to the word; and standing in the water, the two men collected gold as children gather shells on the shore.
And the Bush Robin watched the gold-seekers take possession of the treasured things, which he had looked upon as his own especial property; fancying that they glittered merely for his delight.
The Robbery of the Mails.
The night was pitch dark; the wind had gone to rest, and not a ripple stirred the face of the black waters.
“Ahoy! there.”
“Comin’, comin’. I’ve only bin waitin’, this ’arf hour.”
The man standing at the horse’s head ran round to the back of his “express”—a vehicle not unlike a square tray on four wheels—and, letting down the tail-board, pulled out a number of mail-bags.
With two of these under each arm, he made his way to the wooden steps which led down to the water’s edge, and the men in the boat heard the shuffling and scraping of his feet, as he felt with his boot for the topmost step; his hands being fully occupied in holding the bags.
Slowly, step by step, he stumped down to the water, where willing hands took his burden and stowed it in the bottom of the boat.
“Four,” said the carrier. “One more lot, and that lets me out.”
As he reached the top of the wharf, on his return journey, the bright lamps of his express dazzled his eyes, and somebody cannoned against him at the back of the trap.
“Now, then! Who’re yer shovin’ up agin?”
“All right, my man. I’m not stealing any of the bags.”
The express-man recognised the voice.
“Is that you, Mr. Crookenden? Beg pardon, sir.”
“Come, come, get the mail aboard. My men don’t want to be out in the boat all night.”
The man carried down his last load of bags, and returned, panting.
“There’s only the paper to be signed,” he said, “and then they can clear.”
“Givemethe form.”
The man handed a piece of paper to the mail-contractor.
“How many bags?”
“Eight.”
By the light of the lamps Crookenden signed the paper, and handed it back to the carrier, who mounted to his seat, and drove away.
The merchant went to the edge of the wharf.
“All right, down there?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied a gruff voice.
“Then cast off.”
There was the noise of oars, and a dark object upon the waters vanished into the night.
“Good-night!”
“Good-night,” answered the gruff voice faintly, and Crookenden turned his steps towards home.
“That’s all serene,” said the owner of the gruff voice, whose modulations had suddenly assumed their accustomed timbre—the rather rasping articulation of the goldsmith.
“Couldn’t have fallen out better if I’d arranged it myself. Lay to! belay! you lazy lubbers, forrard—or whatever is the correct nautical expression to make her jump. Put your backs into it, and there’ll be five pounds apiece for you in the morning.”
“Alla right, boss; we ze boys to pulla. Rocka Codda, you asleep zere?—you maka Macaroni do alla ze work.”
“Pull yerself, you lazy Dago. Anyone w’d think you was rowing the bloomin’ boat by yourself. Why, man, I’m pulling you round every dozen strokes. The skipper, aft there, is steerin’ all he knows agin me.”
The truth was that Benjamin’s manipulation of the tiller was extraordinary and erratic, and it was not until the boat was well past the wharves that he mastered its mysteries.
The tide was ebbing, and when the boat was in the stream her speed doubled, and there was no need for using the oars. Swiftly and silently she drifted past the lights on the quay and the ghostly houses which stood beside the water.
The Pilot’s system of beacons was so perfect that with their aid a tyro such as Tresco found no difficulty in steering his course out of the harbour.
Outside in the bay, the lights of two vessels could be seen: those of the plague-ship and of the steamer which, unable to get into the port in the teeth of the tide, was waiting for the mails.
But Tresco pointed his boat’s nose straight for the long beach which fringed the end of the bay.
The rowers had seen the mail-bags put aboard the boat, and they now wondered why they did not go straight to the steamer.
“Hi! boss. The mail-steamer lies to starboard: that’s her lights behind the barque’s.”
“Right, my man,” replied Tresco; “but I have a little business ashore here, before we pull out to her.”
The boat was now nearing the beach. As soon as her keel touched the sand, Tresco jumped into the water and, ordering the fishermen to do the same, the boat was quickly pulled high and dry.
“Take out the bags,” commanded the pseudo-skipper.
The men demurred.
“Why you do this? Santa Maria! is alla these mail go back to town?”
“There’sthe steamer—out there!” exclaimed Rock Cod. “A man’d think——”
But he was cut short.
“You saw Mr. Crookenden put the bags aboard. He’s the contractor—I’m only acting under his instructions. Do you wish to remain fishermen all your lives, or would you rather die rich?”
“We know the value of dollars, you may bet that,” answered Rock Cod.
“Then lend a hand and get these bags ashore. And you, Macaroni, collect driftwood for a fire.”
When the mail-bags were all landed, Benjamin took a lantern from the boat, lit it, and walked up the beach to where the fishermen stood, nonplussed and wondering.
“Your feet must be wet, Macaroni.”
“Si, signor.”
“Wet feet are bad, not to say dangerous. Go down to the boat, and you’ll find a bottle of rum and a pannikin. Bring them here, and we’ll have a dram all round.”
Tresco placed the lantern on the sand, and waited.
“You see, Rock Cod, there are some things in this world that cut both ways. To do a great good we must do a little wrong—that’s not quite my own phrase, though it expresses my sentiments—but in anything you do, never do it by halves.”
“I ain’t ’ad no schoolin’ meself,” answered the fisherman. “I don’t take much account of books; but when there’s a drop o’ rum handy, I’m with you.”
The Italian came up the beach with the liquor.
“Here’s what’ll put us all in good nick,” said Tresco, as he drew the cork of the bottle, and poured some of the spirit into the pannikin. “Here’s luck,” and he drank his dram at a draught.
He generously replenished the cup, and handed it to Rock Cod.
“Well, cap’n,” said that puzzled barnacle, “there’s things I don’t understand, but here’s fun.” He took his liquor at a gulp, and passed the pannikin to his mate.
It took the Italian no time to catch the drift that matters were taking.
“You expecta make me drunk, eh, signor? You steala ze mail an’ carry him away, eh? Alla right, you try.”
“Now, look here,” said Tresco; “it’s this way. These bags want re-sorting—and I’m going to do it. If in the sorting I come acrossanything of importance, that’smybusiness. If, on the other hand, you happen across anything that you require, but which seems thrown away on other folks, that’syourbusiness. If you don’t like the bargain, you can both go and sit in the boat.”
Neither man moved. It was evident that Crookenden had chosen his tools circumspectly.
“Very good,” said Tresco, “you have the run of your fingers over this mail when I have re-sorted it, provided you keep your heads shut when you get back to town. Is it a bargain?”
He held out his hand.
Rock Cod was the first to take it. He said:—
“It’s a bargain, boss.”
Macaroni followed suit. “Alla right,” he said. “I reef in alonga you an’ Rocka Codda. I no spik.”
So the compact was made.
Seizing the nearest bag, Tresco cut its fastenings, and emptied its contents on the sand.
“Now, as I pass them over to you,” said he, seating himself beside the heap of letters, “you can open such as you think were meant for you, but got misdirected by mistake to persons of no account. But burn ’em afterwards.”
He put a match to the driftwood collected by the Italian. “Those that don’t interest you, gentlemen, be good enough to put back into the bag.”
His hands were quick, his eyes were quicker. He knew well what to look for. As he glanced at the letters, he threw them over to his accomplices, till in a short time there was in front of them a bigger pile of correspondence than had been delivered to them previously in the course of their conjoint lives.
The goldsmith seldom opened a letter, and then only when he was in doubt as to whether or not it was posted by the Jewish merchant. The fishermen opened at random the missives in front of them, in the hope of finding they knew not what, but always in disappointment and disgust.
At length, however, the Italian gave a cry of joy. “I have heem. Whata zat, Rocka Codda?” He held a bank-note before his mate’s eyes. “Zat five pound, my boy. Soon I get some more, eh? Alla right.”
Tresco put a letter into the breast-pocket of his coat. It’s envelope bore on its back the printed legend, “Joseph Varnhagen, General Merchant, Timber Town.”
So the ransacking of the outgoing mail went forward. Now another bag was opened, but, as it contained nothing else but newspapers and small packages, the goldsmith desired to leave it intact. But not so his accomplices. They therein saw the chief source of their payment. Insisting on their right under the bargain, the sand in front of them was soon strewn with litter.
Tresco, in the meantime, had directed his attention to another bag, which contained nothing but correspondence, and evidently he had found what he was most earnestly in search of, for he frequently expressed his delight as he happened across some document which he thrust into his bosom.
In this way the mail was soon rummaged, and without waiting for the other two men to finish their search, the goldsmith began to reseal the bags. First, he took from his pocket the counterfeit matrix which had cost him so much labour to fashion. Next, he took some string, similar to that which he had previously cut, and with it he retied the necks of the bags he had opened. With the help of a lighted match, he covered the knotted strings, first of one bag and then of another, with melted sealing-wax, which he impressed with the counterfeit seal.
His companions watched the process with such interest that, forgetting for a time their search amongst the chattels of other people, they gave their whole attention to the process of resealing the bags.
“Very ’andy with his fingers, ain’t ’e, Macaroni?—even if ’eisa bit un’andy in a boat.” Confederacy in crime had bred a familiarity which brought the goldsmith down to the level of his co-operators.
All the bags were now sealed up, excepting the one which the fishermen had last ravaged, and the contents of which lay scattered on the sand.
“This one will be considerably smaller than it useter was,” remarked Tresco, as he replaced the unopened packets in the bag.
“Hi! stoppa!” cried Macaroni, “Rocka Codda an’ me wanta finish him.”
“And leave me to hand in an empty bag? Most sapient Macaroni, under your own guidance you would not keep out of gaol a fortnight: Nature did not equip you for a career in crime.”
Tresco deftly sealed up the last bag, and then said, “Chuck all the odds and ends into the fire, and be careful not to leave a scrap unburned: then we will drink to our continued success.”
The fire blazed up fiercely as the torn packages, envelopes, and letters were thrown upon its embers. The goldsmith groped about, and examined the sand for the least vestige of paper which might form a clue to their crime, but when he was satisfied that everything had been picked up, he returned to the fire, and watched the bright flames as they leapt heavenwards.
His comrades were dividing their spoil.
“I think, boss,” said Rock Cod, “the best of the catch must ha’ fell to your share: me and my mate don’t seem to have mor’n ten pound between us, not countin’ truck worth p’r’aps another five.”
“So far asIam concerned, my man,”—Tresco used the unction of tone and the dignity of manner that he loved so well—“I am but an agent.Itake nothing except a few letters, some of which I have not even opened.”
The Italian burst out laughing. “You ze boss? You conducta ze holy show, eh? Alla right. But you take nuzzing. Rocka Codda an’ Macaroni get ten pound, fifteen pound; an’ you get nuzzing.”
“Information is what I get,” said Tresco. “But, then, information is the soul of business. Information is sometimes more valuable than a gold-mine. Therefore, in getting, get information: it will help you to untold wealth. My object, you see, is knowledge, for which I hunger and thirst. I search for it by night as well as by day. Therefore, gentlemen, before we quit the scene of our midnight labours, let us drink to the acquisition of knowledge.”
Rock Cod and Macaroni did not know what he meant, but they drank rum from the pannikin with the greatest good-will. After which, Benjamin scattered the embers of the fire, which quickly died out, and then the three men shoved the boat off and pulled towards the lights of the steamer.
On board the barque Captain Sartoris paced the poop-deck in solitude. Bored to death with the monotony of life in quarantine, the smallest event was to him a matter of interest. He had marked the fire on the beach, and had even noticed the figures which had moved about it. How many men there were he could not tell, but after the fire went out, and a boat passed to starboard of the barque and made for the steamer which lay outside her, he remarked to himself that it was very late at night for a boat to be pulling from the shore. But at that moment a head was put out of the companion, and a voice called him in pidgin English to go down. He went below, and stood beside the sick captain, whose mind was wandering, and whose spirit was restless in its lodging. He watched the gaspingform, and marked the nervous fingers as they clutched at the counterpane as hour after hour went by, till just as the dawn was breaking a quietness stole over the attenuated form, and with a slight tremour the spirit broke from its imprisonment, and death lay before Sartoris in the bunk. Then he went on deck, and breathed the pure air of the morning.
Dealing Mostly with Money.
Pilot Summerhayes stood in his garden, with that look on his face which a guilty schoolboy wears when the eye of his master is upon him.
In his hand he held a letter, at which he glanced furtively, as if he feared to be caught in the act of reading, although the only eyes that possibly could have detected him were those of two sparrows that were discussing the purple berries of the Portuguese laurel which grew near by.
“‘I enclose the usual half-yearly allowance of £250.’” The Pilot was reading from the letter. “Damnation take him and his allowance!” ejaculated the irascible old sailor, which was a strange anathema to hurl at the giver of so substantial a sum of money. “I suppose he thinks to make me beholden to him: I suppose he thinks me as poor as a church-rat, and, therefore, I’m to be thankful for mercies received—hismercies—and say what a benefactor he is, what a generous brother. Bah! it makes me sicker than ever to think of him.” He glanced at the letter, and read, “‘Hoping that this small sum is sufficient for yourself and my very dear niece, to whom I ask to be most kindly remembered, I remain your affectionate brother, Silas Summerhayes.’” A most brotherly epistle, containing filial expressions, and indicating a bountiful spirit; and yet upon reading it the Pilot swore deep and dreadful oaths which cannot be recorded.
Every six months, for at least fifteen years, he had received a similar letter, expressing in the same affectionate terms the love of his brother Silas, which was accentuated by a like draft for £250, and yet the Pilot had persistently cursed the receipt of each letter.
There was a footstep on the verandah behind him. With a start the old man thrust the epistle and draft into his pocket, and stood, with a look on his face as black as thunder, confronting almost defiantly his charming daughter.
“Have you got your letters, father? I heard the postman’s knock.” As she spoke, Rose looked rather anxiously at her frowning parent. “Good news, I hope—the English mail arrived last night.”
“I daresay it did, my gal,” growled the Pilot. “But I don’t see what you and me have to do with England, seeing we’ve quit it these fifteen years.”
“But we were born there! Surely people should think affectionately of their native country.”
“But we won’t die there, please God—at least,Iwon’t, if I can help it. You’ll not need to, I hope. We’re colonials:thisis our country.”
The girl turned to go indoors, but, a sudden impulse seizing her, she put her arms around the old man’s neck, and kissed his weather-beaten cheek.
“What’s been troubling you, father?I’lldrive the worry away.” She held his rough hand in hers, and waited for him to speak.
“You’re a good gal, Rosebud; you’re a great comfort. But, Lord bless me, you’re as sensitive as a young fawn. There’s nothing the matter withme, except when now and again I get a fit of the blues;but you’ve drove ’em away, da’rter; you’ve drove ’em clean away. Now, just you run in and attend to your house; and leave me to go into town, where I’ve a bit of business to attend to—there’s a good gal.” He kissed his daughter’s smooth, white forehead, and she ran indoors, smiling and happy.
The Pilot resettled the peaked cap on his head, stumped down the garden-path, and passed out of his gate and along the road. His steps led him to the main street of the town, where he entered the Kangaroo Bank, the glass doors of which swung noiselessly behind him, and he stood in front of the exquisite clerk of Semitic origin, who dealt out and received over the broad counter the enormous wealth of the opulent institution.
“Good morning, Captain Summerhayes.”
“’Mornin’,” said the Pilot, as he fumbled in the inside pocket of his coat.
At length he drew out the draft and handed it to the clerk, who turned it over, and said, “Please endorse it.”
The old sailor took a pen, and with infinite care wrote his name on the back of the document.
When the clerk was satisfied that everything was in order, he said, “Two-hundred-and-fifty pounds. How will you take it, Captain?”
“Idon’t want to take it,” answered the Pilot gruffly. “I’ll put it along with the other.”
“You wish to deposit it?” said the clerk. “Certainly. You’ll need a form.”
He drew a printed slip from a box on the counter, and filled it in. “Sign here, please,” he said, indicating with his finger the place of signature.
“No, no,” said the old man, evidently annoyed. “You’ve made it out inmyname. It should be in my da’rter’s, like all the rest have been.” The clerk made the necessary alteration, and the Pilot signed.
“If you call in this afternoon, I’ll give you the deposit receipt,” said the clerk.
“Now, really, young man, an’t that a bit slow? D’you think I’ve got nothing better to do than to dodge up and down from the port, waitin’ for your precious receipts?”
The clerk looked surprised that anyone should question his dictum for one moment, but he immediately handed the signed form to a neighbouring clerk for transmission to the manager, or to some functionary only one degree less omnipotent.
“And while we’re waiting,” said the Pilot, “I’d be much obliged if you’d show me the book where you keep the record of all the monies I’ve put into your bank.”
The clerk conferred with another clerk, who went off somewhere and returned with a heavy tome, which he placed with a bang on the counter.
The Jew turned over the broad leaves with a great rustling. “This inspection of our books is purely optional with us, Captain, but with an old customer like yourself we waive our prerogative.”
“Very han’some of you, very han’some indeed. How does she stand?”
The clerk ran his fingers down a long column of figures, and said, “There are a number of deposits in Miss Rose’s name. Shall I read the amounts?”
“I’ve got the receipts in my strong-box. All I want is the total.”
“Ten thousand, five hundred pounds,” said the clerk.
“And there’s this here new lot,” said the Pilot.
“Ten thousand, seven hundred and fifty altogether.”
The Pilot drew the heavy account book towards him, and verifiedthe clerk’s statements. Then he made a note of the sum total, and said, “I’ll take that last receipt now, if it’s ready.”
The clerk reached over to a table, where the paper had been placed by a fellow clerk, and handed it to the gruff old sailor.
“Thank you,” said Pilot Summerhayes. “Now I can verify the whole caboodle at my leisure, though I hate figures as the devil hates holy water.” He placed the receipt in his inside pocket and buttoned up his coat. “Good-day,” he said, as he turned to go.
“I wish you good morning, Captain.”
The Pilot glanced back; his face wearing a look of amusement, as though he thought the clerk’s effusiveness was too good to be true. Then he nodded, gave a little chuckle, and walked out through the swinging, glass doors.
The Jew watched the bulky sailor as he moved slowly, like a ship leaving port in heavy weather, with many a lurch and much tacking against an adverse wind. By the expression on the Semitic face you might have thought that Isaac Zahn was beholding some new and interesting object of natural history, instead of a ponderous and grumpy old sailor, who seemed to doubt somewhat thebona fidesof the Kangaroo Bank. But the truth was that the young man was dazzled by the personality of one who might command such wealth; it had suddenly dawned on his calculating mind that a large sum of money was standing in the name of Rose Summerhayes; he realised with the clearness of a revelation that there were other fish than Rachel Varnhagen in the sea of matrimony.
The witching hour of lunch was near at hand. Isaac glanced at the clock, the hands of which pointed to five minutes to twelve. As soon as the clock above the Post Office sounded the hour, he left the counter, which was immediately occupied by another clerk, and going to a little room in the rear of the big building, he titivated his person before a small looking-glass that hung on the wall, and then, putting on his immaculate hat, he turned his back upon the cares of business for one hour.
His steps led him not in the direction of his victuals, but towards the warehouse of Joseph Varnhagen. There was no hurry in his gait; he sauntered down the street, his eyes observing everything, and with a look of patronising good humour on his dark face, as though he would say, “Really, you people are most amusing. Your style’s awful, but I put up with it because you know no better.”
He reached the door of Varnhagen’s store in precisely the same frame of mind. The grimy, match-lined walls of the merchant’s untidy office, the litter of odds and ends upon the floor, the antiquated safe which stood in one corner, all aroused his pity and contempt.
The old Jew came waddling from the back of the store, his body ovoid, his bald head perspiring with the exertion he had put himself to in moving a chest of tea.
“Well, my noble, vat you want to-day?” he asked, as he waddled to his office-table, and placed upon it a packet of tea, intended for a sample.
“I just looked round to see how you were bobbing up.”
“Bobbin’ up, vas it? I don’t bob up much better for seein’you. Good cracious! I vas almost dead, with Packett ill with fever or sometings from that ship outside, and me doin’ all his vork and mine as well. Don’t stand round in my vay, ven you see I’m pizzy!” Young Isaac leisurely took a seat by the safe, lighted a cigarette, and looked on amusedly at the merchant’s flurry.
“You try to do too much,” he said. “You’re too anxious to save wages. What you want is a partner to keep your books, a young man with energy who will look after your interests—and his own. You’re just wearing yourself to skin and bone; soon you’ll go into a decline, and drop off the hooks.”
“Eh? Vat? A decline you call it? Me? Do I look like it?”
The fat little man stood upright, and patted his rotund person.
“It’s the wear and tear of mind that I fear will be fatal to you. You have brain-tire written large over every feature. I think you ought to see a doctor and get a nerve tonic. This fear of dying a pauper is rapidly killing you, and who then will fill your shoes?”
“My poy, there is one thing certain—youwon’t. I got too much sense. I know a smart feller when I see him, andyou’realtogetter too slow to pleaseme.”
“The really energetic man is the one who works with his brains, and leaves others to work with their hands.”
“Oh! that’s it, eh? Qvite a young Solomon! Vell,Ido both.”
“And you lose money in consequence.”
“I losing money?”
“Yes,you. You’re dropping behind fast. Crookenden and Co. are outstripping you in every line.”
“Perhaps you see my books. Perhaps you see theirs.”
“I see their accounts at the bank. I know what their turn-over is; I know yours. You’re not in it.”
“But they lose their cargo—the ship goes down.”
“But they get the insurance, and send forward new orders and make arrangements with us for the consignors to draw on them. Why, they’re running rings round you.”
“Vell, how can I help it? My mail never come—I don’t know vat my beobles are doing. But I send orders, too.”
“For how much?”
“Dat’smypizz’ness.”
“Andthisis mine.” The clerk took a sheet of paper from his pocket.
“Idon’t want to know your pizz’ness.”
“But you’d like to know C. and Co.’s.”
“Qvite right. Butyouknow it—perhaps you know the Devil’s pizz’ness, too.”
Young Zahn laughed.
“I wish I did,” he said.
“Vell, young mans, you’re getting pretty near it; you’re getting on that vay.”
“That’s why it would be wise to take me intoyourbusiness.”
“I dare say; but all you vant is to marry my taughter Rachel.”
“I want to marry her, that’s true, but there are plenty of fish in the sea.”
“And there are plenty other pizz’ness besides mine. You haf my answer.”
The bank-clerk got up. “What I propose is for your good as well as mine.Idon’t want to ruin you; I want to see you prosper.”
“Youruin me? How do you do that? If I change my bank, how doyouaffect me?”
“But you would have to pay off your overdraft first.”
“That vill be ven the manager pleases—but as for his puppy clerk, dressed like a voman’s tailor, get out of this!”
The young man stood, smiling, by the door; but old Varnhagen, enacting again the little drama of Luther and the Devil, hurled the big office ink-pot at the scheming Isaac with full force.
The clerk ducked his head and ran, but the missile had struck him under the chin, and his immaculate person was bespattered from shirt-collar to mouse-coloured spats with violet copying-ink. In this deplorable state he was forced to pass through the streets, a spectacle for tittering shop-girls and laughing tradesmen, that he might gain the seclusion of his single room, which lay somewhere in the back premises of the Kangaroo Bank.
The Wages of Sin.
As Pilot Summerhayes turned up the street, after having deposited his money, he might well have passed the goldsmith, hurrying towards the warehouse of Crookenden and Co. to receive the wages of his sin.
In Tresco’s pocket was the intercepted correspondence, upon his face was a look of happiness and self-contentment. He walked boldly into the warehouse where, in a big office, glazed, partitioned, and ramparted with a mighty counter, was a small army of clerks, who, loyal to their master, stood ready to pillage the goldsmith of every halfpenny he possessed.
But, with his blandest smile, Benjamin asked one of these formidable mercenaries whether Mr. Crookenden was within. He was ushered immediately into the presence of that great personage, before whom the conducting clerk was but as a crushed worm; and there, with a self-possession truly remarkable, the goldsmith seated himself in a comfortable chair and beamed cherubically at the merchant, though in his sinful heart he felt much as if he were a cross between a pirate and a forger.
“Ah! you have brought my papers?” said the merchant.
“I’ve broughtmypapers,” said the goldsmith, still smiling.
Crookenden chuckled. “Yes, yes,” he said, “quite right, quite right. They are yours till you are paid for them. Let me see: I gave you £50 in advance—there’s another £50 to follow, and then we are quits.”
“Another hundred-and-fifty,” said Tresco.
“Eh? What? How’s that? We said a hundred, all told.”
“Two hundred,” said Tresco.
“No, no, sir. I tell you it was a hundred.”
“All right,” said Tresco, “I shall retain possession of the letters, which I can post by the next mail or return to Mr. Varnhagen, just as I think fit.”
The merchant rose in his chair, and glared at the goldsmith.
“What!” cried Tresco. “You’ll turn dog? Complete your part of the bargain. Do you think I’ve put my head into a noose on your account fornothing? D’you think I went out last night because I loved you? No, sir, I want my money. I happen to need money. I’ve half a mind to make it two-hundred-and-fifty; and I would, if I hadn’t that honour which is said to exist among thieves. We’ll say one-hundred-and-fifty, and cry quits.”
“Do you think you have me in your hands?”
“I don’tthink,” replied the cunning goldsmith. “IknowI’ve got you. But I’ll be magnanimous—I’ll take £150. No, £160—I must pay the boatmen—and then I’ll say no more about the affair. It shall be buried in the oblivion of my breast, it shall be forgotten with the sins of my youth. I must ask you to be quick.”
“Quick?”
“Yes, as quick as you conveniently can.”
“Would you order me about, sir?”
“Not exactly that, but I would urge you on a little faster. I would persuade you with the inevitable spur of fate.”
The merchant put his hand on a bell which stood upon his table.
“That would be of no use,” said Benjamin. “If you call fifty clerks and forcibly rob me of my correspondence, you gain nothing.Listen! Every clerk in this building would turn against you the moment he knew your true character; and before morning, every man, woman and child in Timber Town would know. And where would you be then? In gaol. D’you hear?—in gaol. Take up your pen. An insignificant difference of a paltry hundred pounds will solve the difficulty and give you all the comfort of a quiet mind.”
“But what guarantee have I that after you have been paid you won’t continue to blackmail me?”
“You cannot possibly have such a guarantee—it wouldn’t be good for you. This business is going to chasten your soul, and make you mend your ways. It comes as a blessing in disguise. But so long as you don’t refer to the matter, after you have paid me what you owe me, I shall bury the hatchet. I simply give you my word for that. If you don’t care to take it, leave it: it makes no difference to me.”
The fat little merchant fiddled nervously with the writing materials in front of him, and his hesitation seemed to have a most irritating effect upon the goldsmith, who rose from his chair, took his watch from his pocket, and walked to and fro.
“It’s too much, too much,” petulantly reiterated Mr. Crookenden. “It’s not worth it, not the half of it.”
“That’s notmyaffair,” retorted Tresco. “The bargain was for £200. I want the balance due.”
“But how do I know you have the letters?” whined the merchant.
“Tut, tut! I’m surprised to hear such foolishness from an educated man. What you want will be forthcoming when you’ve drawn the cheque—take my word for that. But I’m tired of pottering round here.” The goldsmith glanced at his watch. “I give you two minutes in which to decide. If you can’t make up your mind, well, that’s your funeral. At the end of that time I double the price of the letters, and if you want them at the new figure then you can come and ask for them.”
He held his watch in his hand, and marked the fleeting moments.
The merchant sat, staring stonily at the table in front of him.
The brief moments soon passed; Tresco shut his watch with a click, and returned it to his pocket.
“Now,” he said, taking up his hat, “I’ll wish you good morning.”
He was half-way to the door, when Crookenden cried, “Stop!” and reached for a pen, which he dipped in the ink.
“He, he!” he sniggered, “it’s all right, Tresco—I only wanted to test you. You shall have the money. I can see you’re a staunch man such as I can depend on.”
He rose suddenly, and went to the big safe which stood against the wall, and from it he took a cash-box, which he placed on the table.
“Upon consideration,” he said, “I have decided to pay you in cash—it’s far safer for both parties.”
He counted out a number of bank notes, which he handed to the goldsmith.
Tresco put down his hat, put on his spectacles, and counted the money. “Ten tens are a hundred, ten fives are fifty, ten ones are ten,” he said. “Perfectly correct.” He put his hand into the inner pocket of his coat, and drew out a packet, which was tied roughly with a piece of coarse string. “And here are the letters,” he added, as he placed them on the table. Then he put the money into his pocket.
Crookenden opened the packet, and glanced at the letters.
Tresco had picked up his hat.
“I am satisfied,” said the merchant. “Evidently you are a man of resource. But don’t forget that in this matter we are dependent upon each other. I rely thoroughly on you, Tresco, thoroughly. Let us forget the little piece of play-acting of a few minutes ago. Let us be friends, I might say comrades.”
“Certainly, sir. I do so with pleasure.”
“But for the future,” continued Crookenden, “we had better not appear too friendly in public, not for six months or so.”
“Certainly not, not too friendly in public,” Benjamin smiled his blandest, “not for at least six months. But any communication sent me by post will be sure to find me, unless it is intercepted by some unscrupulous person. For six months, Mr. Crookenden, I bid you adieu.”
The merchant sniggered again, and Benjamin walked out of the room.
Then Crookenden rang his bell. To the clerk who answered it, he said:
“You saw that man go out of my office, Mr. Smithers?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If ever he comes again to see me, tell him I’m engaged, or not in. I won’t see him—he’s a bad stamp of man, a most ungrateful man, a man I should be sorry to have any dealings with, a man who is likely to get into serious trouble before he is done, a man whom I advise all my young men to steer clear of, one of the most unsatisfactory men it has been my misfortune to meet.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s all, Mr. Smithers,” said the head of the firm. “I like my young men to be kept from questionable associates; I like them to have the benefit of my experience. I shall do my best to preserve them from the evil influence of such persons as the man I have referred to. That will do. You may go, Mr. Smithers.”
Meanwhile, Benjamin Tresco was striding down the street in the direction of his shop; his speed accelerated by a wicked feeling of triumph, and his face beaming with an acute appreciation of the ridiculous scene in which he had played so prominent a part.
“Hi-yi!” he exclaimed exultingly, as he burst into the little room at the back of his shop, where the Prospector was waiting for him, “the man with whips of money would outwit Benjamin, and the man with the money-bags was forced to shell out. Bill, my most esteemed pal, the rich man would rob the poor, but that poor man was Benjamin, your redoubtable friend Benjamin Tresco, and the man who was dripping with gold got, metaphorically speaking, biffed on the boko. Observe, my esteemed and trusty pal, observe the proceeds of my cunning.”